Silence
by TimeAsunderQ
Summary: WiP. Chapter 1 of many. Rated R for violence. CSI investigates a murder whose killer leaves them clues. What do the clues add up to? Will they find out before it's too late? Please R&R.


**Author's Note**: Okay folks, here's my first epic. This is a story idea that I've been throwing around for almost a month and I've decided that I'm ready to commit to a longer, more developed story. I hope to update once a week and I have no idea how many chapters this will take me so... sit back and enjoy! Please R&R as always. Oh yeah. Rated R for graphic violence. Consider yourself warned.

Silence

Chapter 1: As it so began

"Please! Please, no! NO!" She wailed and begged for her life, flattening herself into the corner of the room. The walls would not yield to her pressure, though she wished they would swallow her whole rather than hold her still for _him_. Her attacker still advanced, wielding the glinting knife with the calm assurance of practice.

Screaming more for her own sake than to attract attention (how had she ever been lured this far away from town?) she lashed out, making a set of red ripples across his jaw. Blood welled up into droplets, which slowly began their descent. He, still smiling peacefully, wiped his face with his shirt sleeve, leaving a smear of red on the otherwise white shirt. The corresponding smear of red on his face looked like war paint, giving him the appearance of some primitive filled with the fervor of the hunt. Still, he made no sound and (even more surprisingly) he did not punish her for the injury received.

She felt her voice wane with the throbbing fear that exploded from inside. He made no move against her. He said nothing to berate her. It was then she knew she was going to die.

And so she did. For the briefest moment his smile widened into the gleeful grin of a child who finally got what he wanted. Then she found the knife against her throat, cold and solid and

_Sharp..._ was the last thought the woman ever had; the blade was drug across her neck swiftly. She barely registered that it was _her_ blood that was now covering the pristine walls. The corner was filling with her life as it bled out of its owner.

The man now had a second coat of war paint. He pulled his fingers through it, making crimson stripes down his forehead, nose, cheeks, until it mingled with his own blood. He reveled in its slickness and its warmth as he looked down at his victim. She lay glassy-eyed and cooling, propped up by the joining of the walls.

He sighed. She had done what so many before had not. She had taken part of him with her, across the Gate. He had to get that piece back lest the officials track his mission. Kneeling, he braced her hand against his, and tore the knife through her wrist. Now he had what was rightfully his.

Now he was one step closer to being finished.

Standing up, he put on a set of gloves, moved to the stereo and inserted a tape. He had planned it, this beginning-of-the-end, because he knew where the endgame would be played. His opponent needed to know it as well. Quickly he pressed play, then pause, and attached a string to the pause button, running it to the door handle.

Her hand in hand, he left the room and gently closed the door behind him. She would be found. In time, she would be found and _he_ would be called. Then the endgame would truly begin.

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"Hello? Hello I'd like to report a... a dead body... a woman, she"

"Calm down sir, can you tell me your location?"

"I'm at the Old Vegas Inn out I-15, outer edges of Clark County. Guess cell phones don't have 911 service do they, huh?"

"No sir. Now, tell me slowly the order in which things happened."

"Order? There is no order. ::pause:: I run the inn. Haven't been back for a while though, went on vacation and nobody else to run the place so... Anyways, found a note on one of the doors. Well, not a note, more like graffiti. Went to rub it off and the door slid open, wasn't locked. Across the room, good lord... so much blood. This lady, she's... dead, she's in the corner, her neck. ::gag:: There's a string on the door, so I ain't openin it all the way until some police or something get here."

"Is it connected to a device of some sort?"

"Yeah, uh, it's connected to a little stereo from what I can see. But I mean... I ain't openin the door. Could be a bomb, could be... anything."

"Understood sir, I advise you to stand clear. We'll have officers out there as soon as we can. Please stay on site, sir; they'll need to take an official statement."

"Okay lady."

Click. Click.

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It was almost an hour before the black-and-whites rolled up with sirens blaring. Three Vegas cop cars, one detective, and an SUV full of crime scene investigators surrounded the room at the inn. A man came running out of the lobby. On instinct, one of the officers pulled his gun from its holster and held it at the ready.

"Whoa whoa, I'm a friend, put that gun away! I called it in, man!"

The detective waved his hand and the officer lowered his gun. "Daggio, take the perimeter. I want a sweep. Nichols and Yates will clear the room." He turned to the inn owner. "I'm Detective Brass, and you are?"

"Hugh Donaldson. I own the Old Vegas Inn."

Another man came up behind Donaldson. "I'm with the Crime Lab. Gil Grissom. This is Nick Stokes," he pointed to a young man near approaching from their SUV, "and this is Catherine Willows," he said, gesturing to a red-haired woman pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "We'll be clearing the scene, but we need to know exactly what you've touched."

Brass pulled out a small notebook and a pen. "Mr. Donaldson, could you please recount exactly how things happened? First off, what time did you arrive at the scene?"

He seemed perturbed by the question. "I arrived at my inn, the_ scene_ as you put it, at about oh, 10 PM. I came to grab the business mail on my way home. From my vacation, that is." He crossed his arms and hugged them in close.

"Then what?" the detective prompted without looking up from his notebook.

"Then... I saw the marks on the door. I was thinking that some vandals had marked it up with spray paint. Kids, you know? I went to wipe it off, with a rag from my car, but it pushed open when I pushed against it. I, uh, grabbed the handle and swung it open a bit wider and I saw the string attached to the door. I was pretty freaked out at that point so I got a flashlight and looked in and... there she was, in the corner. I mean damn, the walls are covered in... I didn't know people could bleed that much you know?"

"Do you know this woman? Has she possibly rented a room from you before?"

Donaldson snorted derisively. "Not many folks have. We don't get much business out here. So no, I don't think she's rented a room. Definitely not lately, at least."

Grissom broke in. "We'll need to see your records for the last six months."

He waved towards the lobby. "All yours. They're in plain sight behind the check-in desk. Take what you need."

Grissom looked to Nick, who walked off towards the lobby.

Catherine stepped forward at Donaldson's elbow. "So... let me get this straight. All you've touched is the doorknob. And you touched a rag to the paint on the door." He nodded. "Where is this rag?"

"It's over there near the room. Dropped it after the door opened, I was sort of... shocked. Didn't know who to call but I figured 911 was probably a good start."

It was Brass's turn to be the people-person. "You were right to call 911 Mr. Donaldson. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. I've taken a full statement and, if you'll go with this officer here, we'll get you printed and maybe a DNA sample."

"What? Samples and prints? Why am _I_ a suspect?"

_Always the same thing_ Grissom thought to himself, clearing his throat to clarify. "You are not a suspect Mr. Donaldson. We need your DNA and prints to clear you from the scene. If we remove your presence, we can see what _does not_ belong in that room, if you see."

The inn owner accepted this and went peacefully with Officer Daggio.

Catherine, Grissom and Brass huddled together, forming a triangle. The detective looked between the two. "Well, let's do this folks."

As they approached the room, Grissom noted the number. Bronze numbers hung from the door, pinned there by a series of nails. 05. Room 5. He chewed his lip, wondering if there was some significance, but he filed it away when the two officers ducked under the string and came out to meet them.

Officer Yates spoke first. "Nothing there sir, not in the room or in the adjoining bathroom. No sign of forced entry or hasty exit. Suspect entered and exited from the front door. Also, the string is connected to the pause button on the stereo. It's on, and there's an unlabeled tape inside it."

Nichols was strangely serious. "It looks like we were expected, sir." He paused and stared back at the open door. "Oh, and that graffiti? Written in blood. Guess he couldn't tell with it being night and all..."

Yates quickly cut into his partner's melancholy. "We've determined that it's not a bomb. Well, it's incredibly unlikely. More likely it's a note, you know, some whacko leaving us a tape of him killing her, or maybe some statement about how he's not crazy and she deserved to die and he did it for her own good. We've seen a bunch of those."

Catherine was quick to show her annoyance. "Yeah? So have we. But let's see what we've got this time before we jump to conclusions." She waved Grissom and Brass on in front of her. "You first, men."

Everyone crowded around the door, eager to learn the purpose of the string. What would it do? Catherine still wasn't sure it wasn't a bomb. In fact, neither was Brass. Therefore it was Grissom who moved the door open till the string was taut. Then he pushed it over the edge.

Click. Click.

The scratch of unused tape burst into an eerie melody. Two soft voices joined the rift. The song was unmistakable, casting a haunting aura over the scene.

_Hello darkness, my old friend, _

_I've come to talk with you again, _

_Because a vision softly creeping, _

_Left its seeds while I was sleeping, _

_And the vision that was planted in my brain _

_Still remains _

_Within the sound of silence..._

Not a word was spoken for a moment after the lyrics died down. The subtle beauty of the song starkly contrasted the gore of the scene, sending shivers down the spine. Everyone knew that the song wasn't over, but the tape certainly was. There was a loud (and surprising) click as the tape hit its end and stopped.

Brass was the first one to speak.

"Well. This is new."

TBC...

**Author's Note:** First chapter was a bit long to get it going. So it begins. Please R&R.


End file.
